


Pieces of April

by sg_wonderland



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 21:37:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8817088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sg_wonderland/pseuds/sg_wonderland
Summary: Just a bit of a glimpse into little Daniel’s world, pre-series.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted several years ago

I’ve never really liked the word ‘effects’ and I liked it even less when applied to the accumulation of one man’s life. However, Jack told the psychiatric hospital to box it all up and send it right along to Colorado and he would see that Dr. Ballard’s family got it.

And that’s why I am in my apartment with two boxes; all that is left of all the family I have left. Well, blood family, anyway. What I also have is Jack, Sam, Teal’c, a case of Guinness, three pizza’s and two bottles of wine. Personally, I’m waiting for the partridge in a pear tree to round out this amazing array of oddities.

Sighing, I carefully cut into the first sealed box. Nothing out of the ordinary in here. Nick’s personal belongings. Clothes, toiletries, all taken out and replaced, to be donated to charity. Disappointed, I’m hoping the second box offers something more interesting.

It does. First, it is heavy, very heavy. It took a dolly to wheel it in here, whereas Teal’c carried the other one. I open this one as carefully as I did the first one. And on the top wrapped carefully, are two framed photographs. One is of a small girl, with a mischievous gleam in eyes that, despite the black and white photograph, I know are blue. “Mama,” I whisper.

Jack leans over my arm to look. “I see where you get it now.”

“Get what?” I frown suspiciously.

“Nothing,” he mutters into his beer.

“Hmm.” I narrow my eye at him as I unwrap the second one.

“Lemme have that.” Jack jerks it out of my hand. “Now I wonder who this could be.”

I flush because I know who it is; I was about three or four when that one was taken. Mama called my name then photographed me as I looked up. My hair was a very long tangle of curls way down on my shoulders, my knees hiked up to support the book on my lap, my bare feet covered with sand. Although I know differently, I appear to be wearing nothing but a journal.

Sam relieves Jack of the picture. “Oh, my God, Daniel! You were beautiful! Look, Teal’c.”

He peruses the black and white photograph. “You were indeed a most charming and attractive child, Daniel Jackson.”

I hide my blushes by delving into the box. My grandfather’s books, some books that my parents consulted on, had no idea he would have kept them. A box, when opened, revealed newspaper clippings from one spring day in New York. I unfold them carefully and read them, word for word. 

Their entire lives, in a few inches of space and type. One sentence leaves me feeling quite sick. “The Jacksons leave behind a young son, Daniel, who survives.” I re-fold them carefully, replacing the clippings in the box, making a mental note to get them properly preserved. 

And then in the bottom, in a metal box, I find something that stuns me speechless. I haven’t seen this book since I was eight years old.

I didn’t realize until my third or maybe fourth foster home that not everyone kept a journal. I’d been keeping one since I could write; I just assumed everyone else did, too. But then, not everyone else had the parents that I had, which means I was writing as soon as I could hold a pencil.

I counted myself luckier than any of the other kids I encountered in foster care. Most of these kids were here because their parents drank or fought or took drugs, beat or abused them. The parents would change just enough to get the kid back, then the vicious cycle would start all over again and the unlucky child would be yanked mercilessly back.

I was lucky because I knew my parents loved me, had loved me until the day that they died. And beyond, if you believe in that kind of stuff. I do

“Come on, give, Daniel, what is it?” Jack’s voice brings me back to the present.

I can’t speak, I’m so shocked that Jack easily removes the small leather bound book from my hands, opening the first page. He blinks several times before he clears his throat. “This journal is the property of Daniel Jackson, Cairo, Egypt. Given Christmas Day, 1968 by Claire Ballard Jackson.” He quickly does the math. “You were writing at three years old?”

I finally find my tongue. “Actually, I was three and a half.”

“Shit! I think when I was three years old, the only thing I was capable of was....” His eyes take on a wicked gleam.

“Oh, sir, surely you were potty-trained by then?” Sam beats us all to the punch with a perfect flutter of overly innocent blue eyes.

“Here, Jack.” I’ve taught him well, he handles the book reverently, returning it to me. I take a minute to let my fingers linger over my mother’s inscription before I flip to the first page and begin to read.

“Aloud, if you don’t mind.” Jack elbows me.

“Jack, this is my personal journal.”

“And you were three..”

“And a half.” I insert huffily.

“And it’s not like there’s liable to be anything incriminating in there. Humor us, Daniel, let us have a peek at Danny’s world.”

I sigh and read aloud.

 

January 1, 1969-Mama gave me this for Christmas so that I can write in my own book and not in hers. Papa said today was a good place to start.

 

“Even then, he was scribbling in the margins.” Jack gloated.

“If you want to hear anymore, I suggest you keep quiet.”

 

Mama and Papa and I live in the desert. They are archaeologists.

 

“Tell me someone spelled that word for you.” Jack grabs another beer, leaning back against the couch.

“Probably.” I humor him.

 

That means they study history. I think I want to study history when I grow up. Either that or live with the camels, I have not decided yet.

 

“I do not understand this desire to live with the camels, Daniel Jackson.” 

“I was just a normal little kid, Teal’c. And I’ve always been fascinated by camels.” I admit.

“Having heard your vocabulary at three and a half, I think it’s safe to say you were not a normal little kid.” Sam roots Jack completely out of the way, resting her head on my arm so she can read along. He emanates vibes of displeasure as he moves to the sofa across from us. I’ve noticed they’ve both been doing an awful lot of touching since I shifted back into phase; not that I’m gonna call either of them on it or anything. “Your handwriting was so neat, Daniel, what happened to you?”

I glance across the room wickedly. “Jack happened to me. ‘Get the lead out, Daniel. Can you hurry it up? Jeez, I’m starting to root to this damned place.’ Any of that sound familiar?”

“Shut up and read on.” He points the bottle at me.

“I am uncertain how you expect Daniel Jackson to read with his mouth shut, O’Neill.”

Sam snickers into my shirt sleeve. “Read some more.” She instructs.

“Yes, Mom.”

 

Last night, Mama let me stay up until tomorrow. And while she was not looking I took a drink of Papas coffee. I think I will have coffee for breakfast from now on instead of milk.

 

“So that’s how it happened.” Jack sits up abruptly, nearly spilling his beer.

“Actually, sir, I’d assume fresh milk was hard to come by in the desert.”

“Daniel Jackson, do not female camels yield a liquid similar to that of bovines?”

“I can see that none of you have ever drunk warm camel’s milk. Because if you had, you’d know why I turned to coffee.”

“I’ll just stick with beer, thank you. Better than anything you got in the desert, you gotta admit.”

“Actually, Jack, there were quite a few people on the digs who could whip up a batch of something alcoholic quite easily.”

“They had stills? Cool.”

We have to stop and explain the meaning of stills to Teal’c. This gets Sam and me into the second bottle of wine and several more beers into Jack.

“Don’t think you can distract us this easily, Daniel. More bedtime story, pretty please?”

 

February 10, 1970-Mama said I must stay home today because I am being punished. I did not mean to get lost but the temple was very big and the walls are all alike. Papa said I did what was smart when I realized I was lost. I sat down and waited to be found.

 

“That’ll be the day,” Jack crows.

“How many times have I actually been lost?” I peer over my glasses at him.

“Forty-seven.”

“Thanks, Teal’c.” I frown at Jack’s triumphant expression and skip ahead.

 

March 17, 1970-I found an artifact today. It was a carved ankh. I think it may have belonged in a priest's tomb, but it was out of place, Mama said that most of these sites have been robbed. I think it is very sad that dead people cannot rest in peace and be left alone.

 

“Hmm.” Only Jack can make clearing his throat seem like an insult.

 

May 3, 1970-I do not feel well. Mama said some of the diggers children have chicken pox. I do not think I have chicken pox because I have not been around any chickens. Except the ones in the market but I do not think you can catch a disease from a dead chicken.

 

June 1, 1970-Mama said I have been very sick and they had taken me to Cairo to see a doctor who kept me there in the hospital. I do not think I like hospitals. I missed my mama and papa. I have asked them not to leave me anywhere else, ever again.

 

The room is eerily quiet and I can feel Sam’s tears on my sleeve.

“Whose damned idea was this anyway?” Jack breaks the heavy silence.

“I believe it was your damned idea, O’Neill.” I hastily swallow the wine I have in my mouth and promptly choke, breaking the tension as Sam thumps me on the back and I hold my journal out to protect it.

“Carrying on.” I flip over a few pages.

 

July 7, 1970-Today is my birthday. I am five years old. Mama, Papa and I drove to Cairo for lunch. Farim’s mother, Mina, had invited us to her home. She smells nice and cooks very well. It was nice to be in a real house and Mina has a lot of very pretty things.

When we got back, we went to the dig and everyone hugged and kissed me and wished me another year of happiness. Michel gave me a native robe he had asked Ana to weave especially for me. She told me as she helped me try it on that she dyed it to match my eyes. I think I look like one of the Egyptian children now.

 

“Yes, because they have a lot of blue-eyed, blonde-haired children in Egypt.”

“Mama always said she could pick me out instantly,” I admit. “Because I was constantly leaving my head uncovered.”

Sam’s head is back on my arm. “Daniel, if this is too hard for you, we understand.”

Actually, it isn’t. It’s been almost fun. I can’t really remember any of this, although this explains why I carried a ratty piece of woven blue cloth around for a long time.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t read to the last page? It ends somewhere around....”

She leans up to kiss my cheek. “Consider yourself forgiven, Daniel. But could we see some more of this little kid?”

“Okay, but just so you know, this may be the part where I famously asked my mother, in front of some very proper local ladies, what one of them was concealing under her robe.”


End file.
